


Danse Macabre

by maybeformepersonally



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Character Death, Creepy, Depression, References to Depression, References to Illness, Supernatural Elements, unintentional self-harm by not eating enough (due to depression), wherein i try to write horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-12-29 18:42:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18299870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maybeformepersonally/pseuds/maybeformepersonally
Summary: The world is in crisis, and Phil mourns.





	Danse Macabre

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s note: I wrote this for the Phandom Fic Fests March Mini-Fest #2: Shuffle Mode. I'd like to thank the lovely peeps who organised this fest and the person who submitted this song as a prompt, as I had a lot of fun writing this. And a very special thanks to the wonderful [Alex](http://terpia.tumblr.com/), who did me the huge favour of beta reading this story at the last minute, giving me frankly spectacular feedback and without whose contributions this story wouldn't be what it is. Any remaining mistakes are my own.

 

A few rays of sunlight sneaked in through the blinds, illuminating the room in a soft light. Phil laid on the edge of the bed, exhausted. He’d gone to bed early last night, like he did most nights these days, but as usual, no matter how much sleep he got, he never felt rested. It seemed that whenever he finally succumbed to exhaustion and started drifting off, he jolted awake in a cold sweat. His unconscious insisted on plaguing him with nightmares. It was never anything concrete, always a feeling, a half-formed image, a shadow that morphed into something else, into someone else. Something was chasing him, he was trapped and couldn’t get out, he was falling, he was alone and he couldn’t find anyone no matter how much he tried. He couldn’t get up. Something was watching him. Something bad was about to happen. He tried to warn people and they couldn’t hear him, couldn’t understand him, couldn’t see him. It was rarely the same thing, but they all felt connected by the same theme. They all made him feel the same way. Helpless.

 He’d dreamt that he was trapped inside a room this time. The floor had been dusty where he sat on it, back to a corner, after what felt like days of trying to find a way out. He had tried screaming, but no one had come. But something or someone _had_ been close, he could feel it. He could hear little noises coming from the walls, a faint scuttling sound, a quiet swish. He’d sat in his corner for a while. He couldn’t remember why he’d been trying to leave. Then he’d heard drops. _Drop, drop, drop_ , falling from the ceiling. He couldn’t see where the leak was, was distracted from it by a rustling sound. He turned to stare at the wall, the wallpaper was old and yellowed, peeling in one corner. The wall seemed solid, no peepholes or hidey-holes, but he still ran his hands over it to check. He couldn’t find anything, but he knew something was there, must be, there was this feeling in his gut... there was something about this wall.

 The sound of the water drops came into focus again, the drops sounded loud, suddenly. He turned his eyes from the wall and only then noticed the water was up to his chest already. It was rising rapidly, and only then did he feel it against his skin. It was lukewarm and oddly dense. He looked around and couldn’t see where the room ended, could only see a big expanse of water that seemed to stretch on forever. The water should only reach up to his knees if he stood up. But he didn’t. He stared into the placid water, _drip, drip, drip, drip_. It was barely moving, lapping at his chest gently. Something moved under it, somewhere in there, too deep for it to be above the floor he was sat on. The water went deeper.

 There was something in the water. He couldn’t see what it was.

 _Scritch, scritch, scritch_ , he heard behind him. There was a scratching sound coming from the wall behind him. He moved his palm against the wall. Where was it? The thing he was looking for. He knew the wall was important. He looked at the wall again, and his eyes caught on the yellow wallpaper. Had something just… moved within it? Right there.

 The water reached his collarbones. _Drip, drip, drop_. He put his nose right against the wall and tried to make out the image. Whatever it was, it may be the key that he was looking for. And… yes, there. Something was moving in the pattern of the wallpaper, shifting in the distance. Something was agitating the water. It was making waves now. He didn’t stand up. He wanted to scrape his fingernails on the wall, wanted to make himself heard on the other side too, but something told him it was the wrong thing to do. He needed to _climb inside_. But how? He pressed his nose harder into it, palms pushing urgently. He was on his knees, facing the wall. He couldn’t remember moving, but that was unimportant. The waves were gaining momentum, he felt them sloshing around, touching his chin. The water was starting to drown out the scratching noise from the wall and for the first time, he resented it. The water moved next to his ankles. There was something in the water, but whatever it was hadn’t touched him; it had only circled close enough that he felt the water whirl tightly around his legs. He wished the water would be quieter. He could see the figure now, moving inside the wallpaper. It seemed to be moving closer, but it was a fair distance away still. Phil needed to reach it, needed to get closer, _needed, needed, needed_.

 He couldn’t hear the dripping sound anymore, but the waves crashing against the walls were louder. He put his ear to the wall. _I’m here_ , he wanted to say, wanted to scream, but he didn’t know how. He just knew he needed to get to the figure inside. There must be a way. The water lapped at his lips, as he kept pressing his hands to the wall, searching, searching. There was a splash behind him, but he didn’t turn around. Whatever it was just slithered around making bigger and bigger waves. There was something big in the water. The scratching came into focus again, it was still there, going faster. A wave hit him on the side of the jaw and water splashed into his ear. Was the water warm? He couldn’t remember. It wasn’t important. His hands clawed into the wall as he pressed his face against it and squinted, trying to focus on the shadowy figure moving steadily closer. The water was loud in his ears, but he ignored it. Then something dragged against his ankle and he woke.

 He didn’t jump this time, didn’t jostle awake with his heart in his throat and his heart going a mile a minute. He just opened his eyes where he was, lying on his side under the covers, and he stared at the sunlight reflecting into the wall in front of him. It was daytime again. He should get up. Eat something. Take a shower.

 He was tired.

 He stayed where he was.

 

 -

 

 He got up eventually. He needed to eat something. He shuffled over to the kitchen and stared at the contents of the top cabinet. He needed to get some groceries, but he didn’t know when he’d be able to go outside. Technically, he could do it, but just because he was immune to the thing didn’t mean that he couldn’t carry it apparently, and so he should avoid going outside anyway. He didn’t want to pass on this awful thing to anyone.

 He stared at the row of cereal boxes for a long moment. They hadn’t even opened this box of Lucky Charms and now Phil wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to stomach them again.

 He reached for the cabinet. Toast it was.

 

 -

 

 He passed by the calendar on his way out and into the living room, and purposefully didn’t look at it, even though he wouldn’t be able to make out the writing without his glasses or contacts on. It didn’t matter, he knew what it’d say, what pictures adorned it. And so he didn’t look at it.

 He should put it away. Later. He could barely summon enough energy to force some kind of nourishment into his listless body at this point. He should be hungry.

 He wasn’t.

 

 -

 

 He sat down on the sofa and forced himself to methodically eat the toast and drink some water. It tasted of nothing, and he vividly remembered when Dan had told him food didn’t taste much like anything when he was in a depressive episode. The thought only caused a spike of something not unlike anxiety to squeeze his chest. The food felt heavy in his stomach, like he’d swallowed a rock, or a handful of ashes. Something dry and sharp and uncomfortable.

 The framed photos on the cupboard looked wrong, he realised.

 They were roughly in the right place, but they seemed to have been disturbed, Like someone had picked them up and put them back slightly crooked. The knick-knacks around them seemed slightly off as well, but that didn’t make sense. He didn’t want to straighten them, for some reason; he wasn’t sure why.

 He stared at the unplugged flat screen and sipped his water. He should do something. Clean, cook, call someone, maybe watch a show or an anime.

 He sat there staring at the wall, trying to convince himself to move, do any one of the things he knew would help, he should just pick one and do it. He couldn’t eat more, but he could cook something so that he’d have food ready for later. He could do laund- no. No, not that. He could try to watch something, an anime maybe? If he had to read subtitles he might even take in enough of the story to take in the plot.

 But he didn’t want to watch an anime, or cook, or clean.

 After battling with himself for long enough that the sky was beginning to darken, he went back to bed.

 

- 

 

He got up in the middle of the night to pee. He’d managed to doze a bit, nebulous impressions left behind from fragments of dreams, or nightmares, or whatever they were.

 He left the lights on in the hall and the door to the bathroom open. As he washed his hands in autopilot, he saw one of his body wash bottles open.

 He’d barely been doing the bare minimum in terms of personal hygiene, and he knew he hadn’t used anything as fancy as that particular body wash lately. It was the one Dan liked to buy for him, fresh, delicate, and far too expensive. Phil hadn’t minded, it was a small luxury that they could afford, and he’d always liked indulging Dan.

 He stared at the bottle where it rested on the side of the tub. The cap was resting beside it. Had he left it there? He couldn’t remember doing that. He couldn’t imagine why he would.

 The silence of the house was oppressive. It felt like a pregnant silence rather than a negative one. Like a presence that filled up the space rather than the absence of sound it was supposed to be.

 He looked in the mirror, then to the open door. The light was on in the hallway, leading all the way to the bedroom. He turned the light in the bathroom off, but decided to leave the one in the hall switched on. He wasn’t sure if it’d make the restlessness better or worse, but it felt like the right decision.

 

-

 

He woke up. He felt disgusting. He needed to brush his teeth, shower. Eat something. He wanted to stay in bed and cry, but that felt like too much effort anyway, he didn’t think he could summon the energy to cry. He felt catatonic. He’d been shuffling around in a daze for days now, feeling almost like he was asleep, or at least disconnected from reality. He was terrified of what would happen once the feeling dissipated and he fully woke up.

 For now, he sat up. He didn’t want to have to do this. Get up, do things. He squinted at his bedside table. He couldn’t make out his glasses. His vision was bad enough that everything was blurry without any corrective aid, and he couldn’t be bothered to wear his contacts right now. He patted around the bedside table to make sure, but they weren’t there.

 With a sigh, he looked around the room. Not for any specific reason, he was just tired and lost and didn’t know what to do. He saw a black blob on the bed beside him. He frowned. He remembered putting his glasses on his bedside table last night. He reached for it and indeed, it was his glasses. He looked around the room again, nonplussed. His eyes were drawn to the dark fabric covering the full-length mirror.

 

He got up and walked to the door, and was disoriented for a second when he opened it. Right, he’d left the hallway light on all night. He didn’t turn it off now, just walked to the bathroom and considered showering with the lights off. But no, reality already felt unreal enough as it was, and that would probably only make it worse. He would just try to avoid the bathroom mirror. He did not need to see how awful he looked. Maybe he could put a towel over it, cover it like he had the one in the bedroom. He hadn’t wanted to have to look at himself, alone, on his side of a bed meant for two.

 He was reminded of the open bottle of body wash once he’d closed the door behind him and had turned to step inside the tub. He took a deep breath and stepped in, ignoring the incongruity for the moment. He’d leave it there for now.

 

-

 

The shower helped a little bit. Maybe. He thought so, anyway, so it did. He decided it did.

 He couldn’t bring himself to eat, but he needed to _do_ something, so he turned on the laptop and ordered some groceries to be delivered for an exorbitant price he’d normally not even consider paying. But, under the circumstances, he didn’t mind throwing some money to a guy desperate enough to go around the city delivering stuff in the middle of a code red emergency situation. He couldn’t imagine wanting as much money as he had right now, what would he even spend it on? A forever home was no longer attainable. A home was comprised of the people you loved.

 Maybe he’d cook. 

He ordered a lot of ready-made meals and non-perishables anyway, knowing he’d need those.

 Once he’d put aside the money for the delivery man, plus tip, he didn’t know what else to do. He stood in the kitchen, hunched over, trying not to let his breathing get too fast, trying to keep the anxiety _down_. There was old coffee in the coffee pot, he saw. He should throw it out. He washed the pot afterwards, and left in in the rack to dry. Looked at the clock on the wall. Two minutes had passed. He thought about pouring himself some water, but he wasn’t thirsty. He should probably drink something anyway, stay hydrated. So he did. Slowly, he downed a whole glass, sending occasional glances at the clock. Once he was done, he looked around the kitchen again, at a loss. He could clean the fridge. He didn’t really feel like it, but he needed to do _something_ while he waited, and that’s something that needed doing, so he reached into the drawer with the cleaning supplies. The mindless repetition helped, some.

 Once he was done, as he was putting the supplies away, his gaze caught on the shelf with all the cereals. The box of Lucky Charms had been opened. He stared at it, trepidation clawing up his throat and filling his lungs, leaving no room for air. A noise made him jump.

 The doorbell. The groceries were here. His heart was beating a bit fast and his breathing was a bit short, but he pushed that aside and went to the door, generous tip clutched in one hand.

 He put the fridge things away and left the rest on the floor of the kitchen to sort later. He needed to go on a walk to clear his head, staying cooped up inside was driving him mad. But he couldn’t go outside, he didn’t want to risk it, and so he grabbed a coat from the entrance closet and walked outside to the house’s patio to get some air.

 

-

 

He went back in when the cold started to become uncomfortable, and found the bags of groceries on the floor where he’d left them. He took out his phone and took it off airplane mode, ignoring the barrage of lost calls and messages and notifications he got as soon as he connected to the wi-fi. He needed to check in, he wanted to spare his family as much worry as he could. He put the phone on the counter and let it ring, speakers on.

 “Phil,” Martyn picked up almost immediately.

 “Mar. How is everyone?” Martyn and Cornelia had been cleared and treated for prevention, so they were likely safe, but their parents had been quarantined with early stage symptoms three days ago. Early enough they might respond to treatment, but there hadn’t been news on that front last time Phil had called. It had been pure luck that Corn and Martyn had been at the Isle of Man when disaster hit. Thankfully, it meant that they could hold the fort on that front, and Phil didn’t have to feel guilty that he wasn’t there for them.

 Martyn filled him in, but it was still too early to tell. He tried to get Phil to talk about how he was doing, but Phil didn’t even know how to begin to talk about it.

 So he just said “mourning” when Martyn asked how he was, and steered the conversation to a hasty end, then turned the phone back to airplane mode.

 

-

 

Lying down in bed was less overwhelming than getting up and doing things only about half the time, but even when it was, the silence could turn stifling.

 He played music sometimes, for background noise. He didn’t pay it much attention, but it was… nice. Sometimes. He opened his Spotify app and played a playlist on loop. He and Dan had got the family plan, of course. He listened to Dan’s playlists instead of his own. He’d downloaded most of them after... After.

 Time felt wrong. Or maybe it was _him_ that was wrong, that seemed more likely. Time felt gooey, stretched out, stretched thin. It passed too fast but nothing happened. Hours dragged on, diluted, frozen. They didn’t feel real. Phil felt disconnected from the world, from the fabric of reality, from his own life, his own house, his own body.

 Somewhere inside it, his guts clamoured for nourishment. His legs hurt, a throbbing ache punctuated by stronger stabbing pains. He stayed cocooned under the too warm blankets, throat dry and hands trembling, not that he noticed. The music blared from his phone resting on the pillow next to him.

 He felt faint, but he couldn’t stand the thought of food right now. If he tried to eat anything he’d probably end up being sick and he definitely didn’t have the strength to clean that up right now. Ugh.

 It was getting dark outside. The shadows were crawling down the walls as the sun set, painting aesthetic grey geometric patterns on the cream coloured canvas as he watched. He was tired, maybe he should sleep some more. He felt too warm, but he couldn’t stand the cold whenever he’d tried loosening the blankets. He’d eat later. Maybe a nap would clear his head a bit or at least stoke his appetite.

 He closed his eyes and ignored the shadows that still moved over his closed eyelids until he dozed off.

 

-

 

 He was woken up a few hours later by the pain in his joints and the dryness in his throat. He sat up on autopilot and everything went dark for a second. Shit.

 He got up slowly, carefully, bundled himself up in one of his parkas and fluffy slippers and moved slowly to the kitchen, grabbing onto the walls for support and leaving a trail of lit lamps and ceiling lights behind him. He felt shaky and too weak the whole trip but he avoided actually passing out, at least. He ended up sitting on the kitchen counter and sipping tap water, trying not to overwhelm his system which was probably dehydrated and anemic from lack of proper food. He should have grabbed his glasses before he left the bedroom, but he was lightheaded and his mind was all over the place, and he’d been too focused on getting to the kitchen where the food and water and ibuprofen were, so he hadn’t been paying attention. And so now everything was blurry.

 Once he’d had enough water, he climbed down gently and set about making a smoothie. He’d got over his dislike for the taste of bananas with the years, but he wasn’t in a position to enjoy anything he put in his mouth at the moment anyway, he just needed the energy and bananas were supposed to help with the low sugar and the trembling and joint aches from recent lack of food. It’d be easier to drink his calories than trying to chew anything, he figured, and it should be easier on his stomach, too. He dumped a bunch of sugar and an apple into the mix as well, figuring that might help.

 He remembered eating rice at some point but he couldn’t pinpoint when that had been, and his body had been complaining for a while. He sighed.

 He sat on the counter again, trying to pace his intake. He needed to keep this down. At least he could take an ibuprofen with it without feeling like he’d poured acid directly into his stomach. Hopefully.

 He felt disgusting. He needed a shower. Maybe a bath, so he wouldn’t have to worry about passing out and cracking his head open while he tried to get clean.

 A quiet noise made him freeze where he was slumped on the kitchen counter. He tried to look at the general area it had come from, but he couldn't make out anything out of the ordinary. All he could see was the coloured blur of his kitchen and the part of the living room that adjoined to it. His breathing had grown short and shallow, a cold feeling gripped him by the back of his neck and melted down his back. Fear. It was ridiculous. If someone had broken in trying to breathe quietly wouldn’t do anything mere minutes after he’d caused a ruckus with the fucking blender. He stared at nothing, waiting for something, anything, another noise, a blur of movement, an explanation. He stayed in place, spine curled in on itself, dry eyes wide, and he waited. Nothing was moving, he knew he’d catch movement immediately even without his glasses. He’d left all the lights on, and he knew this place and where everything was supposed to be, even with his limited vision he’d be able to make out if something was out of place if he paid attention, and he certainly was paying attention _now_. The sound had come from the living room, but close enough to the door that led to the kitchen that he should definitely be able to see whatever it was. Seconds drew by, or maybe minutes, he had no way of knowing without a watch and his perception of time had been wonky already lately. Of course he’d left his cell phone upstairs. Of course he’d need to cross the living room if he wanted to get it, or go back upstairs. And of course the house didn’t have a landline. Who even had landlines in this day and age?

 He sat, paralysed, heart going a mile a minute, and watched, and waited, and tried to keep his breathing somewhat regular, his heart in his throat and his hands shaking in a completely different manner than before, and with every terrified breath all he could think of was all the horrible possibilities that could be awaiting him mere metres away, inside his own home. House. Inside his house. He didn’t really think of it as a home anymore, not when he was the only one living in it.

 He’d always hated his brain’s ability to jump straight into worst case scenarios.

 It was late, still dark, and he wondered fleetingly if anyone would even hear him if he screamed. Not from the kitchen, he realised. He didn’t think he had the strength to actually do it, anyway.

 And so he sat, and he stared, and he waited, and waited, and waited, until the stiffness started bleeding from his muscles and his breathing evened out, until enough time had passed that he started feeling like surely it had been nothing and maybe it had been the house settling or maybe he had imagined it, and as the tension slowly dissolved into fatigue he started getting sleepy again.

 Still, he stared, and still, nothing happened, until he heard birds singing in the distance and he realised it must be dawn already. He felt a lot calmer, drained and apathetic more than anything else, but still something irked him. Some trace of the paralysing fear that had gripped him, the sensation that something was off clung to him, muted but persistent. He consciously relaxed his posture and took a deep breath, half-convinced he’d wound himself up for nothing, half-gripped by that enduring apprehension. He relaxed further once the kitchen was incrementally flooded by light. The whole thing felt less scary when he had sunlight bathing the whole room.

 He picked up what was left of the smoothie, about a third of the enormous glass was still full, and he started sipping it again as he listened to the birds still singing their tunes intermittently somewhere outside the house. He couldn’t quite bring himself to stop looking at the entrance to the living room, though, even as the whole episode felt more and more like a bad dream he’d woken up from. The smoothie was lukewarm now. He still sipped it.

 Eventually, he’d finished it, the smoothie and some water were all the liquid he’d ingested in probably close to 24 hours and now he needed to pee. Reality felt weirdly… viscous. The air felt heavy, like if he reached out to touch it he’d be able to leave his fingerprints on it, might be able to mould it one way or the other, like play doh or slime, like he might be able to rearrange the matter into entirely different shapes, or like the air might have become just solid enough that he’d have to swim through it to walk anywhere.

 He got up, walked slowly away from the counter, all the way along the breakfast table, past the fridge, past the plant he’d insisted they needed to have in the kitchen, and forward to the door. He stopped there, hand resting on the wall next to the door frame for stability, and just… took it in. He couldn’t see anything odd or out of place. He squinted and looked around and of course his sight was still blurry, but he couldn’t identify anything suspect or unusual. He couldn’t sense the dread he’d felt in the night, just his own weariness smothering the last few dregs of energy he had left, and still, that strange quality in the air, a surreality, which he was fairly sure was just in his head.

 He walked on, across the boundary and into the living room proper, paying close attention to assuage whatever had lodged into the back of his head, that awful irrationality that remained even after the light of day had burnt it into nothing more than embers and ash and the cold harsh knowledge that he was rapidly coming apart at the seams, sanity, sense and mental health unraveling into frayed threads and incongruous edges that didn’t fit anywhere.

 He crossed the bright-lit room, running his hand over the back of the sofa, not bothering to turn off lights that had become redundant after the sun had risen. He didn’t see anything out of place. Nothing new. Other than the same framed photos and knick-knacks he’d already noticed, days back. Nothing had been moved since.

 Hall. Stairs. Hallway. Bedroom. He grabbed his glasses and put them on slowly, carefully, and took in his surroundings again with their aid. It felt solemn, like some long-forgotten ritual. That made no sense. Nothing made sense anymore. Not after. Not After.

 He retraced his steps down the stairs, back to the living room, to the kitchen, then to the entrance hall, all the way to the door that led outside, but there was nothing. Nothing to signal a break in, nothing to reveal what might have made a sound, no bite marks from wild animals anywhere, no broken windows through which they might have snuck in, nothing.

 He didn’t open the door. Even if he could stand to go outside, the city was quarantined. He might spread it even if he wasn’t affected by it. He was ‘lucky’, they’d said, that he was immune. Lucky, when he had to watch Dan waste away, helpless to do anything about it. They hadn’t even known Phil had the key to a possible cure in his veins until after it was all over. And when they discovered it, they’d called him ‘lucky’. He’d been too shell shocked to respond at the time. If anyone were to tell him such a thing now he’d probably… He’d…

 He didn’t know what he’d do. Cry, probably. Insult them, maybe. If he were a violent man he’d punch them, but he’d never been violent.

 He walked back slowly, pondering what to do next. He should shower. He really needed to shower. But he wanted to sleep. Or. Well. He didn’t actually want to sleep, he wanted to _rest._

 He’d shower. Maybe he could have a snack after, change his sheets. Watch the news.

 Probably not that last one. He still couldn’t stand the idea of it.

 Shower. Then bath. Then try to eat something solid again.

 He needed to start taking care of himself again. Even if the thought of it still chafed like the pull of sandpaper over raw skin.

 He could _try_.

 Baby steps.

 

-

 

He walked into the bathroom and forced himself to peel off his clothes despite the discomfort it caused. Stepping under the warm water wasn’t enough to chase away the cold that seemed to have slinked its razor-sharp claws all the way into his bones, so he did what he could to make it fast. He rushed through the shower, one hand always grabbing onto whatever fixture could help him stand upright in case he became lightheaded, shivering all the while. It was too cold in the bathroom. At least the steam from the shower was starting to fill the room, raising the temperature slightly. He needed to eat again. He knew he’d been starving himself, and last night’s episode, whatever it had been, can’t have helped his body regain its equilibrium, nutritious smoothie or not.

 He considered throwing in a bath bomb, but he couldn’t bear the thought of using one when he felt like this still. Hollowed out. Scraped clean of anything of any worth. Dispossessed and despoiled. He didn’t want to sully the memories with… with what he was right now.

 So he sat down and waited for the hot water to fill the tub up. He lay down once it was at his waist, submerging more of his body in the too warm water. He stopped shivering, finally. The hot water helped relax the worst of the knots in his back. Spending long periods of time paralysed in irrational terror was far from ideal for recovery.

 There, tucked awkwardly inside this gleaming porcelain vessel, encased with steaming water, he took the time to breathe deeply, in… and out. In. Out. He let the warmth seep into his body, soothing away the stiffness and the cold and whatever grime he hadn’t managed to scrape off in his cursory shower. He needed to do better. He knew this. He needed to try harder. It was just hard, when it felt like every single thread of his support net had been violently torn apart. It wasn’t all lost, not yet. It just felt like it right now. He was trapped, instructed to stay inside by authorities and health specialists, kept isolated by choice and circumstance, torn apart by the most devastating loss he’ll suffer in his life. He just needed to get through this, an hour at a time. He had to process the trauma. He wasn’t sure he was really doing that now, but the thought of letting himself feel the crushing weight of it all, the whole tremendous vastness of it, made him want to recoil, made him want to curl into himself so tightly that he couldn’t be disentangled again. He wanted to just… disappear. He didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want this to be his life. He didn’t want to have to be stuck in this, the worst possible timeline. He wished he could just. Not be.

 He rested his head back on the porcelain, tried once again to focus on his breathing. He didn’t even want to talk was the thing. Not that he had anyone he could talk to right now, except maybe the void of internet strangers. Not as himself, of course; not on his verified public accounts, but anonymously. There were probably forums and groups dedicated to supporting the families of those lost to this outbreak.

 But it was a moot point because he didn’t want to talk. Wasn’t sure he even could, right now. He stared up into the ceiling, unseeing. He didn’t know what to do. Generic self-care advice was all he had to guide him right now, so he should start there. It was just so hard. It never ended. He’d finally managed to get something into his system and already he should be eating again. Basic hygiene felt like a sisyphean chore. Existing felt torturous. Grueling. At least there was sleep. He could do sleep.

 He was completely drained. In a way he didn’t think any amount of food and rest could ever touch. He just… he had to try. He’d always asked Dan to try. And he had, always. Dan was the strongest person Phil had ever known.

 The water felt heavy on his weakened body, but not in a bad way. It was still warm, though not blisteringly so anymore. His limbs twinged warningly, a slight soreness that would become a deep, dull ache from continued malnourishment and dehydration. But not for a while. He could take some time before he had to down some painkillers again.

 He could feel the curve of his spine resting on the sleek floor of the bathtub. The water came up all the way to cover the hollow between his clavicles and part of his neck. He stared up into nothing, body limp.

 He was in some kind of tank. It was see through, tall, thick glass all the way through, but everything around it was dark, so he couldn’t make out anything past it, not even the ground under it. Just darkness. Four glass walls and a glass base, water up to his shoulders, with no ceiling.

 The water came up to his shoulders, perfectly transparent and squeaky clean. He could see himself under it if he looked down, he was wearing a suit and his pair of black dress shoes. He walked around the tank, it was big and comfortable, he thought. But there was something else, something in the darkness that surrounded it, that he couldn’t see from inside. There was someone watching him.

 He walked to one of the glass walls, trying to peer up into the dark. He was closer, he thought, but he still couldn’t catch sight of it. He pressed against the glass wall, trying to inch closer, trying to catch a glimpse, but to no avail. Then he realised, _he_ wasn’t getting closer. _It_ was.

 Closer, closer, it was right in front of him, and still he couldn’t see it. He felt it reach out, felt it touch his hair, but still the darkness hid it away.

 A ripple in the tank made him shiver. _There’s something in the water._

 He woke abruptly, sitting up a little and making water slosh around the tub and spill over the edge. There was nothing in the water but him, he could see as much given that he had chosen to forgo the bath bomb. The water was clear, his scrawny frame plainly visible through the sloshing he’d caused with his movements.

 His heart was beating too fast, hummingbird wings fast, and the thud-thud-thud in his chest had blood pumping painfully into his head. God, not another headache, he thought absent-mindedly. His attention wasn’t on the nascent headache doubling down on his temples, however, but rather on his surroundings.

 He’d fallen asleep on the tub, he reassured himself even as he scanned the room. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep here and he’d had another one of those weird dreams he’d been having lately, he thought determinedly. He had fallen asleep in the bath and the water had gone cold and that’s why he was shaking. His body was already weak because he hadn’t been taking care of it properly in the last couple of weeks. It was a perfectly natural reaction. He hadn’t felt something touch his hair, he told himself firmly. He’d been dreaming, it had just been some random image made up by his subconscious. It hadn’t been real, he thought, eyes going over every inch of the bathroom, heart fluttering wildly in his chest. It had only _felt_ real. That’s how dreams were. That’s how minds worked. He had left the bathroom door slightly ajar when he came in. He couldn’t remember doing it, but he’d been distracted, weighted down by exhaustion and stress, and he must have not closed the door properly, that was all. It wasn’t anything noteworthy, he’d been thinking about getting clean, and about how cold it was, and about all the things he should do afterwards, like eat something and take a fresh water bottle to his room and change the sheets, and so he just hadn’t been paying attention. He didn’t remember closing the door, he told himself. He mustn’t have been paying attention. He _couldn’t_ remember closing the door behind him as he came in and he couldn’t remember seeing the back of the firmly closed door as he took his clothes off. He _didn’t_.

 

-

 

He pulled the plug and got up, aching joints cracking and sore muscles making his movements jerky, but he needed to move, needed to get out of the freezing water and out of the bathroom. He needed more painkillers, his entire body felt raw and bruised.

 He held on the rail on the wall as he turned on the shower, teeth rattling bad enough that they were making a loud noise in the silence of the room. He waited for the lukewarm water to seep into him and raise his temperature enough before he tried to make the water any hotter. He didn’t place the shower curtain as a partition between him and the rest of the room. He didn’t stop looking at the door even as he slowly turned the hot water faucet to make the water hotter. The lights were on in the hall. He could get a glimpse into it past the gap of the open door. Well, one quarter open, if that. Everything was perfectly still, he hadn’t seen anything out there, and he would with the way the hall was illuminated. He turned the hot water handle a little more. Everything ached. He was feeling the tell-tale pressure building behind his forehead that portended a headache. A bad one. Still, he watched the door.

 After an insurmountable amount of time, the shower got him warm enough that he’d stopped shaking. Eventually, he managed to soak up the warmth enough that he felt confident that he wouldn’t immediately start freezing again as soon as he stepped out from the hot water, and so he turned the water off and reached for his towels. He quickly wrapped them around himself, covering as much skin as he could. This was an old habit of his, but now he had the added reason of trying to conserve his temperature to justify it. Not that he had anyone to justify it to.

 The first thing he did was wipe his glasses which had steamed up from his shower where he’d rested them on the counter and put them on.

 After spraying deodorant and quickly brushing his teeth, he pushed the door all the way open and stepped through. The light in the hall was too bright, the air pregnant. But nothing was out of place. It was probably all in his head, this tension. He felt like he was in the spotlight. It felt like good suspense music could make a scene feel; charged.

 But nothing happened, and he had things he needed to do and he was sore and exhausted despite his impromptu nap, and so he moved as swiftly as he could, mind alert even as his body lagged. He stopped in the bedroom first, got dried and dressed in enough layers to ward off the cold.

 He was tired but it’d be worse after some food, so he did end up changing the sheets before moving back out of his sanctuary and into the rest of the house.

 

-

 

 The first thing he did as he reached the kitchen was to down two painkillers with some water. His stomach already felt like a corrosive knot trying to eat away his other organs, and it would only get worse with the acidity generated by the painkillers, so he _really_ needed to eat now.

 He grudgingly went to the fridge and got some eggs. He could do scrambled eggs, throw in some leftover rice. It shouldn’t be too heavy for his neglected stomach to handle. He hoped.

 He just wanted to get through this so he could collapse into bed and rest for a while without being woken up by his joint pain or a headache or worse, going to sleep only to wake up feeling too weak to walk all the way down to the kitchen to make himself a proper meal. He’d been letting himself waste away for long enough, and even if part of him still wanted to do that, he knew that was just the overbearing grief talking. He had to get past that.

 He got a bowl and got to preparing his meal, one egg, two eggs, three. Some milk to make it lighter. Some salt. Whisk them together. He poured the mix into the frying pan. Put some of the rice in. Flipped it. The smell was nice, at least.

 He looked around the room as he waited. He still felt that odd weight between his shoulder blades, spreading up to the base of his neck. Nothing seemed to have moved in his absence and he heaved a sigh. He turned off the heat, and then turned off the gas connection. Better safe and all that.

 He didn’t want to go all the way to the living room, and so he sat there and got a fork. He didn’t want to dirty up a plate that he’d have to wash later, so he just picked at the food directly from the frying pan. He looked at the door into the living room and thought of the many times he’d walked the distance without thinking twice about it, without feeling this fatigue and this misery weighing him down. And he ate, mechanically, a mediocre but filling dish he could barely taste. He could technically taste it, it just seemed so insignificant, he couldn’t really enjoy it. He _could_ be grateful that it would nourish his body and replenish his energy a little. And so he ate, taking regular sips of water and zoning out as he pondered the possibility of taking another painkiller after he was done. He didn’t, worried it would upset his stomach even more, but he decided to take one of the tablets upstairs with him as well as some water in case he needed them.

 Exhaustion was weighing down on him even worse after his meal, he had rested his head back on the wall and briefly let his eyes fall closed, but he couldn’t fall asleep here, so he forced them open and willed himself to move. He grabbed the carton with the leftover eggs to put them back on the fridge on his way, but as he turned he saw a silhouette in the living room from the corner of his eye.

 The carton dropped from lifeless fingers and the eggs shattered on the floor, unheeded, as an oppressive sense of panic clawed up his throat. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. His body was on lockdown. He could not breathe in, his lungs were burning, he was suffocating. He’d gone insane, he thought. Was seeing things. He didn’t care. His vision blurred as tears formed and he panicked. No, no, no, he needed to see, he needed to focus, he needed to-as soon as he started turning the blurry figure was gone. It didn’t _move_ , it was just gone. There one second, gone the next, and Phil was moving towards the place he saw it, moving towards the gaping _absence_ that was tearing him apart all over again, and he was sobbing, wiping his tears hoping to _see_ something, anything, hoping against hope he wasn’t outright delusional, begging under his breath. He was begging.

 “Come back, please, _come back_ …”

 He knew it wouldn’t work, and yet it did. He saw the shadow edging into the room, from the other side than the one he’d come from, the seldom-used door into the hall that connected to a storage room. The hall wasn’t illuminated, but the living room was and that was enough. It was more than enough. It was everything, because Phil would recognise that form anywhere and in much worse shape than he was even then.

 Phil choked on a sob, he wondered if he’d gone hysterical, wondered if he was seeing things that weren’t there, if his mind had finally snapped under all the pain and the fear and the grief. He wondered if he was dying, if he _was_ sick after all, if that was what had been happening to his body, if maybe it hadn’t just been dehydration and lack of food, maybe he’d just been too out of it to notice the symptoms. He wondered if he was seeing a ghost, if there was an intruder inside his house and his desperate mind was just superimposing an image over them and he was about to die a horrible death. His mind was going in seemingly a million different directions at once, but that was fine, because impossibly, his anchor was there, and he didn’t even care what or how or why so long as he could have this, so he reached for him, and he called for him,

 “Dan.”

 

-

 

 Dan. It was Dan. Dan had died, an eternity ago (eight days). Phil had left his cold responseless body on a hospital bed of a quarantine ward for specialists to dissect and hopefully gain enough knowledge about whatever disease had taken his life that they could help save other people’s lives with it.

 Dan had died, Phil had sat with his corpse for over an hour while his own blood was tested, had touched his hair, his face, he hadn’t been breathing, he hadn’t had a pulse, Phil had checked, and checked, and checked. He needed to make sure. Dan was dead, had been dead, but he was here, tall and beautiful and standing right there, peeking from the shadows into their shared living room. It didn’t make any sense, if Dan was alive why would he be hiding; Dan wasn’t alive, hadn’t been, Phil had been told so by doctors and nurses repeatedly, Phil had _checked_ himself in his desperation for them all to be wrong, but they hadn’t been, and yet here he was. Somehow, impossibly, he was _here_.

 “Dan,” he whispered, “come-come here. Please, let me-”

 He did, slowly, hesitantly, he moved into the room, eyes wide and bloodshot red. Dan edged closer and Phil felt his knees buckle helplessly. He didn’t hit the floor. Instead, he hit Dan’s arms which wrapped nice and solid and oh so real around him, holding him up.

 “Phil,” Dan rasped, and held him tighter.

 Dan had come back to him.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Author’s note: I wrote this for the March Mini-Fest #2: Shuffle Mode, wherein people submitted songs as prompts. I figured I’d get a sweet love song, Dan and Phil being who and how they are, but instead I got “Dance Macabre”, a song by a band called “Ghost” which, according to a quick google search, invokes both the genre of Danse Macabre (an artistic genre of allegory about the universality of death) and a specific reference to the Black Death, one of the most devastating pandemics in human history. To top it all off, the music video portrays a creature heavily coded as some kind of undead, and from all these elements, I crafted this story. It was not anything I ever would have thought I'd write for this fandom, but I'm very happy that I stepped out of my comfort zone and went for it.
> 
> I'd love any kind of feedback on this one, so if you read all the way through and have the spoons for it, please consider leaving a comment.
> 
> You can like/reblog this post on tumblr [here](https://maybeformepersonally.tumblr.com/post/183857193365/fic-danse-macabre), and you can also drop by my askbox if you have any questions or comments ;)


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